Staring From The High Pews
by cxenon
Summary: A re-imagining of Batman and the DCU. Somewhere among the dark alleyways of crime-infested Gotham dwells a man filled with anger at the world; a dark and gory tale of violence beckons towards him, and he will stop at nothing to cleanse the world of its afflictions. BM/WW
1. Chapter 1 Woes of the Proletariat

**AN: I reimagined Bruce Wayne's background, but kept his iconic origins. Batman I almost totally changed. Kinda got bored with the original.**

"Hey! That's my bed you're sleepin' in!" the coarse voice bellowed. Its owner was a skinny, toothless man, whose head carried only a few wisps of brown hair. A muffled groan answered him, but the body in front of the man showed no signs of moving.

Infuriated, the man grabbed on to the pile of rags at his feet, dragging the body it held across the slightly damp pavement. Without warning, the pile of rags stood up, revealing another equally annoyed man.

"What's wrong with you? I'm trying to catch som-" before the black-haired man could finish, a fist planted itself in his cheekbones, flooring him. Rubbing his aching jaw, the man sprung back up to his feet, smashing his own fist into the face of his assailant.

"You hit hard, but I can hit harder." Boasted the taller man.

"Damn ya'! You took ma' place an' ya' hit me!" The downed man sputtered, his accent becoming more pronounced. Wiping blood from his split lip, the man got to his feet and angrily glared at the trespasser.

"Get outta' ere'. This is mah' place!" He ordered.

The dark-haired man sighed and looked up; to his sides, concrete buildings loomed five storeys high. He could still see the night sky though; the sky without stars, the sky which seemed to glare down at him with a single baleful white eye.

Not wanting to waste his energy in another fight, the man spoke, voice hoarse, "How about we share this place. No police comes around here right? You take that place, and I'll take this; this way, we can find more food."

The brown-haired man seemed to deliberate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You jus' want ta' steal mah' food don'cha?" In truth, he had no wish to fight the bigger man again; he was tired from a long day of scavenging from the rubbish dumps, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse into his pile of rags.

"No. I just want to share food." The man rasped.

"… 'kay. I'm keepin' some leftover burger there. You be sure ta' get some more tomorrow." The man relented. He could see the hunger gnawing at the stomach of his fellow man, and he could not in good conscience turn him away. 'The burger's rotted anyway…'

The taller man shuffled toward the small box, opening it to find a foul-smelling lump of… _something._ He was, however, too hungry to care. He hadn't eaten in days, and he had eaten worse whenever the hunger got this bad.

The toothless man stared at the soul before him, noting his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes; his face was heavily scarred, and it looked like somebody cut open his left cheek sometime in the past. The moonlight was just bright enough for him to take in the rags hanging over a prominent ribcage; he could empathise with the starving man. After all, he was often starving himself.

Just as the man had wolfed down the less-than-savoury meal, the brown-haired man spoke, "You gotta name?"

"Yes."

With an exasperated sigh, the man pressed, "What is it?"

"Bruce Wayne." The man replied.

"Hmm. I'm Pen'worth."

He wasn't sure if this… Wayne heard him, because the light snores of the exhausted man filled the alley soon after. Thinking that it had been a tiring enough day already, Pennyworth decided not to prolong it.

* * *

The sky was too bright. Wayne always hated the sun, hated that it allowed himself to see his own horrible visage.

Perhaps because it also reminded him of what might have been.

Ironically, the sun always seemed dark, allowing him no peace of mind, withholding the shelter the night gave him from his personal demons. Wayne was reminded of that painful incident so long ago, the night that took his parents, and another more recent one; there had been a time when Wayne thought that there was still hope that the world might be saved – that time had long past.

With a groan, he got to his feet, walking out of the alley amidst the snores of his acquaintance. First, he had to find food.

_After that… _Wayne mused, eyes flashing dangerously. His scarred face took on a snarl, and his fists clenched unconsciously.

_After that, there would be time enough for vengeance._

* * *

_ The sun blazed overhead, the oppressive heat washing over Gotham city. There were those who said Gotham was worst at night, but the light hardly helped it. The streets were littered and rust covered any metal in plain sight; under the sun, Gotham stank of rot and decay, as if it were but a corpse of a once great city._

_ But this was a city._

_ A city infested with all the vices of America; it was like a haven to criminal-kind, where they went if they were trying to hide from the Law, where they preyed without fear of reprise._

_ To the innocent citizens, most of which inhabited the slums, it was like their greatest Nightmare. There weren't very many of them here; most good citizens left, others who could not afford the luxury simply turned to the Mob._

_ Bruce trudged into the café, the same one he had frequented for years. The smell of tobacco clung to him, as it often did; although the man did not smoke, his acquaintances in his… 'nightly dealings' often did. He took a seat by the corner, basking in the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, and waved for the waitress to take his order._

_ The woman had freckles on her cheeks, and though she might not have been counted among the most beautiful of women, she never failed to crack a small smile and look pretty when Bruce came in. As the days past, familiar faces often warped from their original kindliness, but the waitress had always stayed homely and enjoyed the infrequent conversations with him._

_ Today, a small boy that looked barely seven clung to the waitress' skirt, staring at him shyly._

_ "What'll it be today Mr. Wayne?" The woman asked, smile broadening._

_ "The usual coffee with eggs. Brought your son today I see, Margaret." Bruce replied. He did not return Margaret's kind smile – he never did. Still, he respected the woman's strength of mind._

_ "Yeah… Jason's turning eight next week! Mind if I let him sit here for a bit?"_

_ Bruce merely nodded, staring at the boy who seemed bent on hiding behind his mother's legs._

_ Jason eventually took a seat before Bruce, albeit uncomfortably. Seeing no need to intimidate a child, Bruce addressed the boy, "How's your mother?"_

_ Jason did not answer, flinching instead at the man's words. Bruce simply continued to stare the boy down._

_ "… S-she's okay… just sometimes she screams at the man next door…" Jason managed weakly._

_ "What do you want to do when you grow up?" Bruce inquired. Even as he asked this, he knew that the boy would likely turn toward crime if his mother did not take him away from Gotham sometime soon. Bruce knew the city has had such a capacity for corruption._

_ "I wanna… get rich and… buy mom a new house…" Jason replied, twiddling his fingers._

_ Even Bruce had to admit, he looked cute doing that._

_ "It's a good dream." Bruce said as Margaret came to him with a cup of coffee._

_ Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce suddenly saw three black-shirted men walk into the café, their features covered by plastic masks._

_ 'That's never a good sign.'_

_ Just as he completed that thought, the men produced several submachine guns and inserted fully loaded magazines into them._

_ Tables were upturned and people were scrambling for cover in a mad dash. A single shot resonated and quiet descended upon the café; a middle-aged man fell to the ground, coughing blood and spasming into the floor._

_ "Shut up and stay still." Came the disgustingly calm voice of the murderer._

_ Bruce was still seated upright, watching the scene with nary a change in his demeanour._

_ He heard the three conversing among themselves, and looked over to Margaret and Jason cowering under the table._

_ "Which one is it?" one of them spoke._

_ The one who had gunned down the hapless middle-aged man surveyed the room, only to look straight in the eye of Bruce Wayne._

_ For a moment, Bruce's heart skipped a beat._

_ "He doesn't seem to be here. Falcone must've lied to the boss." The tallest man in the group drawled._

_ "Hey you see that fucker there? He's pissing me off staring like that." The masked hitman said, staring straight at Bruce._

_ "Let's just kill everyone and get outta here. Boss told us he'd cover us anyway."_

_ 'Now would be a good time to run.' Adrenalin pumping, Bruce Wayne leapt from his seat, surprising the gunmen, and burst through the window on the opposite side of the café. Pumping his thighs, Bruce sped away as fast as he could._

_ He could hear the enraged cries of the men in the café, as well as the soul-rending retort of firearms. He could hear the screams, and the impact of bullet upon flesh, but yet he kept running._

_ As always, he kept his mind focused, his emotions safely stowed away. Still, he could not help but feel guilty for not being able to prevent the daily cycle of violence from claiming more innocent lives._

**AN: Please review!**_  
_


	2. Chapter 2 Lemming Training

**AN: thanks to my one reviewer. For some reason I like to refer to Bruce Wayne as 'Wayne'. Huh.**

_The Darkness consumes all eventually. All mortal men and women die and become nothing more than black dust; as a mortal man yourself, do you not sometimes think of the soothing embrace Death can give you?  
_

_Someday, you will understand that your roots lie in the darkness. Because everything is born from the vast, cold, and inscrutably dark expanse of space, and to the Darkness everything will succumb._

_All it takes is time, and time is running out for all mortal men._

_-Dreams of the Batman_

* * *

Wayne's eyes snapped open, and for a moment he lay on his pile of rags, silently listening to his own laboured breathing. Mustering his strength, the man sat up, turning his eyes skyward to gaze longingly at the moon.

The pale white light held an ethereal beauty that seemed washed away the evils of the night, and it entranced him.

_Dreams are just that… dreams._

The demons of the night had always plagued Bruce Wayne, and waking up suddenly to the pounding of his heart was not new to him.

Knowing he would not fall asleep again anytime soon, Wayne got to his feet, deciding a walk would clear his mind.

* * *

_The sea breeze feels cool on my skin._

Wayne gazed out into the sea from his vantage point above the Gotham Docks, merely two buildings away from his temporary refuge. Here, the incessant and rhythmic groan of the bobbing metal hulls instilled a sense of peace and calm in his mind.

_How ironic that I, a man of learning, a seeker of knowledge, find that there is so little to learn in the world. It's all just one bad joke, isn't it? The only constant is violence and death, and war and strife._

_When I was growing up, I was fed stories about how great America was, how Democracy and Capitalism stood strong against the buffeting storm of extremes. I used to believe wholeheartedly that the Communists and the Nazis were inherently evil; they were touted as societies based around the criminal intentions of warped dictators, and we were lucky for being born in liberal America._

_Perhaps they were only doing their best to survive? Wasn't there some _reason _we had not fathomed?_

Wayne smirked slightly at the direction his thoughts were taking._ I can't believe I'm thinking of Communists now._

Shuffling footsteps upon the concrete floor alerted Wayne to a presence behind him, and he whirled around, only to come face to face with Pennyworth.

Eye-twitching slightly, Wayne relaxed, and turned his attention back to the sea; he hardly took his acquaintance of two days to be a threat.

"What a surprise." Pennyworth offered. No further signs of acknowledgement came from Wayne.

"I come 'ere ta' look at the sea sometimes; gives me hope… for tomorrow." Pennyworth drawled.

"But there's no hope." Wayne whispered.

"Huh. With that attitude, I wonder how ya' lived so long."

"I wonder sometimes as well. What amazes me most is how you can continue living and living, being oppressed day after day. I grew up in Gotham, and every single time the sun comes up, I'm not reminded of hope, no. I'm reminded of how today is another day where I might die, of how the remaining good people of Gotham continue to die." Wayne spoke monotonously.

He could feel his anger rising as he said this, a cold hard edge that attempted to carve its way out of his body. Feeling hard-pressed to contain his emotions, Wayne expressed them the only way he knew – by talking.

"You see, nothing can save this city. I grew up here, so I should know; I came from a normal family, and like any normal family in Gotham we had to struggle to make ends meet. Through it all, my mother and father, they refused to turn to crime, even when the pressure seemed like it could crush us. My father always treated my mother right, never screamed at her, never beat her; instead he relied on his own strength to give us enough to survive in a hard city."

Pausing momentarily, Wayne then sighed. "You know enough about this city to know how that ended. To me, my parents were the epitome of moral absolutes. They never gave up on their principles, and they never for a moment thought crime was the answer."

Wistfully, Wayne thought back to the memories he had of his family. "Look at Gotham now. Crime is no longer a choice; it is a means for survival."

Pennyworth cast a glance at Wayne's scarred face, noting how the man never showed an ounce of emotion. He did not need to; his words spoke volumes on how troubled he was.

"Y'know, I'm list'nin to you talk an' talk, an' it seems to me ya' need ta' lighten up." Pennyworth said. "I can see your pain, but ya' best make sure it don't consume you."

"I come 'ere sometimes ta' brood too, but don' get too caught up with it." With that, Pennyworth sauntered off in the opposite direction.

* * *

It had been five hours since he last saw Pennyworth. Wayne continued staring out into the horizon as the first crimson rays of sunlight filtered through the skyscrapers behind him.

Wayne turned, shielding his eyes from the piercing glare of the fiery orb in the sky. For some reason, it did not seem as malignant as it did yesterday.

He was thinking that perhaps Pennyworth was right; he had spent far too long wallowing in self-pity. Perhaps it was time to change something to ensure no more children could be corrupted by this indecent society.

Wayne knew it was too late for him to find happiness, for he was already tainted by anger and apathy due to his experiences; there was, however, no reason to let others succumb to the same darkness that consumed his life and so many others. His anger could be used for the betterment of others.

_Reason._ The existence of such a corrupt society in America defied reasoning. It was beyond time to change that.

He was still trying to understand why he revealed so much of his past to a veritable stranger, but he could hardly deny the relief it offered him. It was as if a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

As Wayne left the Docks, his eyes reflected a smouldering flame; Pennyworth had gifted him with the most priceless of emotional artifacts, one that he had lost while fumbling around in the dark: motivation.

He was allowed some semblance of peace at this revelation, at least for the duration of time it took to saunter back to the makeshift shelter he shared with his _friend._

_Wayne was unaware that the newly-lit fires of motivation would build to a raging obsession._

* * *

_-Metropolis-_

Metropolis. It is a cosmopolitan city that radiates safety and security. The day is bright, brighter because the polished surfaces of monolithic skyscrapers reflect the golden sunlight; the rays bounce from building to building, creating a beautiful tapestry of yellows and violets that showcase the lustre of the city.

At night, the city is no different. Coloured lights bathe the city with neon radiance, and like a bastion of defence against the encroaching darkness it stands tall and _pure._

Clark Kent stared in wonder at the stark contrast of the bright city against the dim Kansas town of Smallville, where he hailed from.

Around him bustled the crowd, with their beeping telephones and loving companions, rushing every which way. He had stepped off the train merely moments ago, and was currently staring dumbfounded at the towering buildings; to Clark, this was such a _new _experience, such a _thrillin_g new beginning to his life in the city.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Clark started on his way out of the station. First, he had to find lodgings.

* * *

Luckily for Clark, a kindly middle-aged woman had led him to the nearest (and cheapest) motel. Currently, he was lying upon the cotton sheets of the single bed in the room, flipping furiously through a housing catalogue. Before finding a job, he first had to find a place to live.

_The Daily Planet seems like a good place to work. I should be able to handle being a journalist… I should get an apartment close to the building._

Just as he was musing to himself, he heard a muffled scream coming from outside.

_What might that be?_

Straining his ears, Clark began to hear perfectly what was going on outside, approximately two blocks away. He always had good hearing… and eyesight. Hell, he had always been super-strong too. Did he mention he could fly? Last he heard, no human could do that.

He could make out loud sirens going off outside, as well as a sobbing woman. There seemed to policemen gathering outside as well…

Not policemen. _Firemen._

"_My son is inside! Get him out, please!" The woman sobbed hysterically._

"_Ma'am… you have to understand, the fire's too hot! We can't risk going in there until- oh god… the building's collapsing…" a man gasped._

Clark had heard enough. The bespectacled man took off his glasses (more for show than anything else) and opened the window.

_I could never leave well alone. My mother and father taught me to always do what's right; they didn't want me to come to the city because they thought it might change me. Well, it's time to prove them wrong – as long as my name is 'Clark Kent', I'll never ignore a cry for help._

With inhuman strength, Clark leapt out of the building, jumping high into the clouded sky. From a bird's eye view, he saw the raging bonfire consuming the three-storey building, the many firemen employing numerous water hoses and battling it out with the roaring flames. He could see the woman he heard sobbing on her knees, screaming for her child.

And Clark could not bear to watch her anguish. He concentrated on the building, and the world blurred around him as he sped toward the building at impossible speeds. As he got closer, he could feel the temperature rising – but it did not hurt him. Nothing hurt him.

Smashing through the flaming wall amidst incoherent cries from the crowd gathered outside, Clark began his search for the child. Using his vision, he scanned through all the floors, before finding the room holding the unconscious child at ground level. The fire had not yet reached the child, but the room was filled with smoke.

_Must have fainted from smoke inhalation; I have to get him out._

With unmatched speed, Clark sped through the building, crashing straight through concrete, brick and wood, before coming to the child. Wrapping the child in his slightly-burnt coat, Clark then exploded out of the building, descending slowly into the awed crowd of firemen, paramedics and pedestrians.

"This child needs a doctor." Was all he said as he personally laid the boy upon the stretcher. Now that he was out of danger, Clark could see the boy's fragile features marred by soot. _It would have been a shame to let such a child die._

Then he glanced around, to see the crowd staring at him.

"D-did that man just… _fly?_" whispered one man.

The woman kneeling on the floor simply fainted.

All of a sudden, the pedestrians crowded all around him, staring at him as if he were a _god_.

* * *

_-Gotham-_

Wayne had long figured that he was emotionally unstable. That was why he had relentlessly honed his self-control to the point that he never showed any emotion.

Never had he been to hard-pressed not to explode in anger.

Before him was an image of pure bloody carnage; the walls were marked with bullet holes and blood spatters, while a trail of blood criss-crossed the ground. In a tin barrel just beside the pile of rags that had served as his bed lay dismembered limbs, while the head of Pennyworth lolled around listlessly upon the ground.

Wayne didn't feel disgusted by it. He felt angry.

The man who had just hours ago given him hope, was now in pieces that lay strewn about in a dump.

Wayne had enough of the senseless violence and killing. He would make the perpetrators pay, anyway possible.

Not just the perpetrators – every corrupt soul in Gotham would taste his vengeance. The police, who stand by and do nothing, the rich, who dabble in murder for petty gain… he would make them _pay._

Briefly, he was reminded of Jason and his mother, Margaret, those kind souls who he had seen murdered all those months ago, when his life went to hell.

That was before he got these scars, and before Pennyworth gave him motivation. That was when he was a coward.

Surveying the scene, Wayne noticed that there were several bloodied steel pipes on the floor. He could just make out footprints in the copious amounts of dried blood, and a peculiar piece of paper upon the ground.

_Bastards must have beaten him half to death before gunning him down, probably due to some long-overdue debt._

Picking up the piece of paper, Wayne could make out the initials "J.P." along with a telephone number printed on the bottom. He could not make out the smaller print due to the coagulated blood caking it.

_They always get careless. Complacency shall be their downfall._

It seemed so long ago, but Wayne had once known of a moneylender with those exact initials – 'Jim Powel'; after all, it had only been a few months since he had been involved in illegal activities. He loathed himself because of it, and since then had gone into hiding, evading the fate Pennyworth had suffered.

Picking up a steel pipe, Wayne walked out of the alley. He had to find something to eat, to keep his strength up, and then he would need some way to hide his identity.

* * *

The infinite blackness of the night consumed Gotham, and the dim street lights could do little to counter the encompassing blackness.

Wayne hid in the shadows behind the building. High above him was a sign reading 'Jim's Fortune Pod'. It was the local money-lending business that hardly saw fit to hide its shady associations. Despite that, desperate people came here to beg for money, and that was always the first step on the short road into the underworld.

Wearing a worn balaclava, Wayne clutched his makeshift weapon tightly, calming himself. He was proficient in several martial arts, but he knew he was no master, and he had only one chance to take 'Jim Powel' down. The man was a small-time gang boss employing local hoodlums to beat the exorbitant debts out of his clients, and Wayne knew perfectly well the extent of their mercy

Right beside him was a rusted iron pipeline that led straight up to the office of the aforementioned moneylender; raucous laughter emanated from the office, and Wayne could not help but become enraged at the horrendously pitched peals. Even underneath his mask, though, he strove to keep his face expressionless.

With a single hand, he pulled himself up slowly, using his thighs to carry his weight. Starvation had robbed him of his strength, so he would have to rely solely on the element of surprise.

He reached the first floor… then the second… by the time he reached the third, his arms and legs were burning slightly from overuse, and Wayne could not help but curse at his weakness.

Just to his left was an open window, and he could clearly make out several men conversing in a light-hearted tone.

"… Brandon Fowey. He's overdue on his last instalment; just beat him around a little, he'll get the point." A voice uttered, slightly muffled.

"Okay… that's at the Docks ain't it? We'll go tomorrow. The place is crawling with Falcone's critters at night." Wayne narrowed his eyes at that; Falcone was the leader of the Gotham Mob, a businessman that had powerful relations with… well _everyone._

"Yeah man, can't have us bumping into them; I heard they fucked those Gotham South dudes to death for cheating them out of one grand! Damn, you should've seen the alleys man… totally bloody." One of the men said, shuddering slightly.

"…have you seen that bodyguard of his… what's he called? Blame… Brane? Must be the beefiest human I've ever seen! Damn…"

Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the voice of the first man whom Wayne heard talking. "It's Bane. The man follows Falcone everywhere. Tomorrow then… just make sure you get the money. You guys can go now."

Biding his time, Wayne remained stock-still as the shuffling sounds died down behind the slam of a wooden portal. When he was sure no others remained, he crept up toward the windowsill as stealthily as he could manage. Peeking in slightly, he could see a man hunched over his desk, writing furiously upon a piece of paper.

The scratching sounds reached Wayne's ears and the man seemed totally engrossed in his work. He could feel the blood roaring through his veins even as he readied himself, and with a deep breath he leapt through the windowsill, brandishing his pipe and sprinting toward his target not three metres away.

It wasn't until Wayne overturned his desk that the unfortunate man acknowledged his soon-to-be murderer with a muffled yelp. Mustering all his strength, Wayne smashed the end of his makeshift weapon into his enemy's face in a well-aimed swing.

Caught in his haze of fury, he repeated the motion again… and again… and again… until he was sure the floor was spattered with blood and grey matter. Shards of bone stuck out sickeningly from the mutilated face and red fluid flowed out in a never-ending stream

It was the first time he killed. What disturbed him was how good it felt to let his anger loose.

_I don't even know if he's the correct man. Still, he's hardly innocent; death is the punishment. _

By this time, Wayne could hear some commotion outside, and decided it was a good time to escape. He was just about to jump back out the window when he noticed a small pistol on the ground.

… _Perhaps I can do more._

Picking up the pistol, he was pleased to find it loaded. Unlocking the safety, he then ran to the windowsill and slowly climbed back to the ground. Calming his pounding heart, Wayne then walked around the side to the entrance to the building, and pushed his way in. He was satisfied to hear cries of 'Boss!' and 'What the fuck!' emanate from upstairs, and decided to join the gangsters.

Wayne raced up the staircase, two at a time, before entering the office he was in just moments before by the entrance.

"Hey boss, I just got back from – whoa! The fuck happened here!" Wayne exclaimed, feigning ignorance. He glanced around the room to see five other men, their pistols drawn, bickering with one another.

One of them, a tall man with a pencil-thin moustache turned narrowed eyes to the newcomer. "As you can _see_, he isn't our boss anymore. Somebody just snuck in here and– you!"

Before he and his compatriots could act on their sudden realisation, Wayne fired his pistol, almost point-blank, at the men. Not satisfied, he continued riddling their bodies with bullets until he heard a barely discernible _click.  
_

_Ahh… damn. At least they have more bullets._

**AN: Please review! Bruce is going to become one bloodthirsty 'Batman', and it's going to be interesting to write the dynamic between Bruce and Clark.**


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